Page 17 of King of Manhattan

The gunfire resumes, a cacophony of chaos. But amidst the noise and danger, I feel a strange sense of peace. Whatever happens next, I know what truly matters now.

Emily. It will always be Emily.

I take a quick survey of my surroundings. Marco is still conscious, his face contorted in pain as he applies pressure to his leg wound. Gio is behind us, pinned down but unharmed. The Colombians are spread out, using various pieces of machinery and crates as cover.

"Marco," I call out, keeping my voice low. "Can you move?"

He nods grimly, his jaw set. "Just... give me cover."

I take a deep breath, formulating a plan. There's a door about thirty feet to our left - if we can make it there, we might have a chance.

"On my signal," I tell Marco. He nods, bracing himself.

I reach into my jacket and pull out a flash grenade - a little insurance I always carry for situations like this. With a silent prayer, I pull the pin and toss it over the crates.

The bang is deafening, followed by shouts of confusion and pain. I leap from my cover, firing rapidly to keep the Colombians at bay. With my free hand, I grab Marco by the collar and haul him to his feet.

"Move!" I shout, half-dragging him towards the door.

The Colombians are recovering quickly, but the flashbang has bought us precious seconds. Bullets pepper the ground around our feet as we stumble towards our escape. Gio shouts for us to hurry.

I slam my shoulder into the door, bursting through into the cool night air. A black SUV is parked nearby - our getaway vehicle. I silently thank whatever instinct made me insist on having it ready.

"Get in!" I yell at Marco, practically throwing him into the backseat before jumping behind the wheel as Gio climbs in behind him and shuts the door.

The engine roars to life as bullets shatter the rear window. I floor the accelerator, tires screeching as we tear out of the parking lot.

In the rearview mirror, I see the Colombians emerging from the warehouse, but we're already turning onto the main road, quickly disappearing into the night traffic.

My heart is racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins. But beneath the fear and excitement, there's a steady undercurrent of resolve.

"You okay back there?" I call to my guys.

Marco grunts in affirmation. "I'll live.” Gio nods, eyes wide.

I'm quiet for a moment, my eyes fixed on the road ahead. Then I release the deepest sigh of my life. "It's time for a new direction. No more of this bullshit."

Marco and Gio glance at each other. Gio speaks up first. “What do you mean, boss?”

As I navigate through the city streets, my mind is already racing ahead. I need to get Marco to our private doctor, secure our assets, and most importantly, I need to see Emily.

Because now I know - with absolute certainty - that she's the only thing that truly matters. And I'm ready to leave everything else behind for a chance at a real life with her.

I explain everything to the guys, and somehow they understand.

The next morning I drive to her apartment, breaking every traffic law in the process. But when I get there, it's empty. I can tell she hasn't been here in days. Panic sets in, a feeling so foreign and overwhelming that for a moment, I can't breathe.

I call in every favor, use every resource at my disposal to find her. I have my men check hospitals, police stations, even morgues. The thought of her hurt, or worse, because of me, is unbearable.

It's Gio who finally brings me the news, his face grim. "Emily Bennett booked a flight to Paris four days ago," he tells me. "One-way ticket."

I’m elated to learn she’s safe. But then the words sink in, and hit me like a physical blow. She's gone. She left without a word, without giving me a chance to explain, to make things right. I've faced down rival gangs, corrupt cops, even death itself, but nothing has ever felt like this.

But as quickly as the despair hits, determination follows. I'm Vincent Russo. I've built an empire from nothing. I've faced down rivals and enemies alike. I won't lose Emily without a fight.

In the car, on the way to the airport, I make a call. "It's Russo," I say when the line connects. "I need a favor."

The voice on the other end hesitates. "Mr. Russo, I'm not sure-"

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